Classic Poem

He wasn't very, very bad,
The painted savage of the plain,
He only let his arrows fly,
To lessen nervous strain.

He wasn't very, very bad,
The masked marauder of the road,
He only held a stage coach up,
To ease his mental load.

He wasn't very, very bad,
The roving pirate of the sea,
He only boarded burning ships,
To pass life pleasantly.

“Ah, no, not very bad,” declares
The psychoanalyst to-day,
“For bad men are like little boys,
And little boys must play!”